Chamber Music Series
by eeelastic9
Summary: AU fluff goodness where Sherlock's not the only string player in 221B Violist!John, cellist!Irene (among others). Likely complete, though subject to revision.Thank you so much for the faves/reviews/follows!
1. Duets

AU fluffy goodness where Sherlock's not the only string player in 221B (Violist!John).

Rating: Low T, to be safe (make-outs but no sexitimes)

Words: 1753

Tags: AU, Johnlock, Music, Violin, Viola, Fluff, Cuddles, Christmas (idgaf that I wrote this in August)

"DUETS"

"I play the violin sometimes. Will that bother you?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

"Oh, um, well no. It won't bother me. I actually play the viola, myself."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing further. Uncomfortable, John clears his throat and asks, "So, are you very good then ? At violin ?"

"Of course." _Obvious_. "Now, if you'll forgive me, I really must dash."

"Hang on; I don't even know your name. Or where we're meeting. Or anything about you."

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street." And in a flash of gangly limbs, the consulting detective was gone.

Looking back, John will swear he never remembered agreeing to this. Somehow in the course of the afternoon, John had 'agreed' to move in with the madman, and most of his meager possessions had, alarmingly, arrived at the flat. Further, John had also 'agreed' to go out to dinner with one Sherlock Holmes, and it was at a small table at Angelo's that John found himself desperately grappling for a conversation starter.

"So, violin. Do you play in an orchestra ?"

"No, not really my area."

"Perhaps a bit of chamber music then ?"

"No."

Ducking his head a little sheepishly, John pressed, "Duets ?"

Sherlock let out a tense breath. "While I'm… flattered… by your interest, I consider myself a soloist, and _only_ a soloist."

"Right. Okay. It's all fine. Just… making a bit of conversation."

An amused smirk darted across Sherlock's face, but he quickly diverted his attention back out the large windows.

Christmas was nearly upon Baker Street, and John could scarcely believe how normal it felt to be living with such a brilliant, yet easily bored, self-proclaimed sociopath (though John wasn't quite sure he believed all that).

And now that very 'sociopath' was standing at the window, holding an exquisitely expensive violin in those long, delicate fingers. John mused that with long, powerful limbs like that, Sherlock really ought to have picked up viola instead of that tiny violin. Besides, the more somber repertoire of the alto instrument would better suit the moody detective. _Perhaps it's his diva complex, _John mused._ He always wants the big challenging solo lines, not the boring supporting harmonies._

Settling into Sherlock's frenetic runs of a Mendelssohn concerto, John lost himself in Sherlock's music; his fingers working as quickly as that brilliant mind of his. It was so pleasant to hear something relatively upbeat from the detective, instead of the mournful wails of Sibelius or Vieuxtemps.

When Sherlock finished the Mendelssohn, he moved immediately into one of his own compositions, a soothing and pensive melody that gently put John to sleep. The detective smirked, and upon finishing his piece, grabbed a blanket from the sofa to drape over his friend. He tucked his violin back into its velour case, but something made him pause on his way to his room. As though he had suddenly caught whiff of an unusual smell, Sherlock stopped at the sofa and dropped the lightest kiss to John's forehead.

Maybe he would sleep tonight after all.

Sherlock was off running about London on some errand for Mycroft, so John finally had 221B to himself. John considered himself a decent player, but he was much too in awe of Sherlock's talent with the violin to play viola in front of him. It was in these rare moments of quiet that John drew his viola from under his bed, and finally played. He had never been one much for solo pieces (and most viola solos were somewhat dreadful anyway), so he opted to leaf through his old quartet music. Dvorak's "American" quartet and Smetana's "From My Life" were among his favorites, not the least for their impressive viola solos which opened each opus.

In the middle of an impassioned run-through of Weber's _Andante and Hungarian Rondo_, John did not hear Sherlock return to the flat. He certainly didn't hear Sherlock put the kettle on, nor did he notice Sherlock cozying into John's favourite striped jumper.

When he was satisfied with his practice session, John came downstairs to find two steaming cups of tea, and one lanky consulting detective kipping on the sofa in navy and white stripes.

John had fretted and fretted over what to get Sherlock for Christmas. Sherlock fought to suppress dramatic eye-rolls whenever he realized that John was desperately grappling for an appropriate gift for his flat mate. Sherlock, however, knew exactly what he would get for John.

So it came as no surprise that Sherlock had long ago deduced what John Watson would give him for Christmas. Even knowing what it would be, Sherlock couldn't suppress a genuine smile when he unwrapped John's favourite jumper: the navy and white striped one.

"You've borrowed it four times now, and I thought it suited you," John offers hesitantly.

"It's … Thank you, John. Here, I've got you something as well." Sherlock held out a thin package, roughly the size of a sheet of was wrapped appallingly, but John was so taken aback by Sherlock having gotten him anything at all that he barely took notice.

Gently, he peeled off the paper to reveal a smooth, green booklet. _Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia for Violin and Viola from Suite No. 7_. John ran his hand along the cover, and shook his head gently. His eyes met Sherlock's.

"Do you know the piece?"

"Yes, of course; I played it at uni once, with a friend of mine. Dreadful violinist, but a beautiful piece…"

"I can assure you, I will be a much more qualified partner."

John beamed. "You're actually going to play it with me?"

"Naturally. That is the reason why I gave it to you. I've already learned my part, but if you'd like to practice first…"

"No, no. Can we try to run through it? Now?"

By way of response, Sherlock stood and fetched his violin. John dashed upstairs to grab his viola as Sherlock tuned his strings. Collecting himself, John proceeded back down to the sitting room with his viola gingerly tucked under his right arm, his hands tightening the nut of his bow.

"It's been years since I've played this, mind. Don't be too harsh."

"That would hardly be in the spirit of Christmas, now would it, John?"

John scoffed. "Like that would stop you."

Sherlock placed his left hand on the fingerboard, long fingers easily finding the first double-stop.

"Well?"

John adjusted his part on the stand, and placed his bow. "You start."

With a dramatic sniff, the taller man cued the start of the piece, and John read Sherlock's body for the tempo and style. The piece opened with dramatic and broad strokes, and Sherlock graciously allowed John's melody lines to shine through, and John picked up the subtle section changes from Sherlock as though they had rehearsed it hundreds of times before.

In the final section, a mad-dash over the fingerboards with short and wild chords, John and Sherlock turned away from the music to lock eyes. As the piece accelerated to the final chords, both men could feel their pulses rising, but whether it was from the physical exertion the piece required or something else entirely, neither man could tell.

What they could tell was that when Sherlock signaled the cut-off for the final note, there was something more in the air. Breathing heavily, they carefully set their instruments down without breaking eye contact. John wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers, and moved towards Sherlock.

"Thank you," John said hoarsely.

Sherlock pulled John to him gently. Bending down, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's in a feather-light kiss. "Happy Christmas, John," he breathed against his mouth. John pulled Sherlock down to kiss him again, this time with more pressure, more feeling, just _more_, and the two of them melted into the sofa.

There was no urgency, just their bodies pressed together, mouths mingling, tongues caressing, hands roaming, and hearts pounding.

Sherlock let out a small moan, John's calloused hands wonderfully scratching at the bare skin under Sherlock's silk shirt, which had somehow become un-tucked in the last few minutes. Sherlock nuzzled under John's chin, searching for the soft spot just under his jaw where his viola rested. There was already a faint pinkish mark there, but Sherlock carefully sucked and bit at the tender skin until he was certain a nice bright bruise would form. John gasped a bit, and when Sherlock pulled back to admire his work, John attacked Sherlock's violin mark, making an even more obvious mark on the detective's pale skin.

Eventually, when the kissing slowed to a gentle nuzzling, Sherlock sat up, and wordlessly led John by the hand to his bedroom. They stripped to pants and shirts, climbed under the duvet, and John drifted to sleep in Sherlock's arms.

It was barely light outside when Sherlock's phone went off. It was Lestrade, so Sherlock gently disengaged himself from John and stepped into the hall to talk to the Detective Inspector.

"What have you got for me?"

"Sorry to call so early. It's probably not as interesting as you like, but we're hoping to wrap things quickly so we can spend some time with the family for Christmas. Can you come?"

"I'm on my way."

Creeping back into his bedroom, Sherlock climbed onto the bed and kissed his doctor awake.

"Mmm, what's all this then?"

"Lestrade called. Murder. Do you want to come or shall I leave you in bed?"

"No, no, I'll come. Let me get dressed."

Both men had wrapped up against the cold, but it seemed the family whose home was the murder scene very strongly believed in heating. It was sweltering inside, and so Sherlock removed his scarf and John took off his jacket. Seeing the dark, purpled marks under each other's chin, John found himself once again, giggling at a crime scene with Sherlock Holmes.

Anderson rolled his eyes and snapped, "Oi, you two why don't you—What. Is that." He tapped Donovan on the shoulder and pointed.

"What the hell have you two been up to then? Somebody finally caught you under the mistletoe?" she teased.

Exchanging a look, Sherlock replied smoothly, "It's from my violin."

"And my viola," John managed with a cough.

But one more look at each other, and the two were bursting with laughter again.

"Alright, alright, back to work."

Lestrade decided it was likely best if they just didn't know.

~FIN~

Author's note: The musical opinions expressed herein are my own, very biased, viola-player opinions.

This was a just for fun little bit of fluff, I don't own any of the characters and all that. Many thanks for reading ! Not beta'd or brit-picked, so please let me know if there are any errors!

Here's the duet the boys played: watch?v=Chiz5OEQ1zM


	2. Trio's a Crowd

Author's Note: Not beta'd or brit-picked, all errors are my own. Not for profit, just for lolz.

"No, no, _no_, John. Down bow there, and then slur the next two!"

John scribbles a few marks in his part, clutching his viola and bow in one hand. He drops the pencil onto the stand, licks his lips and prompts, "from 71 again?"

It's been an odd transition, John thinks, since Christmas. Sherlock has been dragging out every violin/viola duet he can find and rehearsing them for audience of exactly zero. Sometimes, after they serenade the skull and John is exhausted and musically sated, Sherlock, in a stunning display of affection, gives John a back massage. John offers to return the favour, but it always ends up with the two of them nestled up on the sofa pressing lazy kisses against jaws, necks, and collar bones.

"No need to go that far back. 86 will do. I have the pick up." Sherlock raises his violin to his chin and huffs his mild impatience as John clamoured to find his pitch and get his bearings from the indicated bar.

Locking eyes, Sherlock sniffs- "You've a visitor, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson breaks into their concentration.

Grimacing at the interruption and the prospect of social interaction, Sherlock sets down his violin and walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

John tucks his viola into its case, latches it shut, and then almost drops the whole thing as Irene Adler saunters into the flat.

Removing her stark white gloves, she offers John a tight smile and says, "Miss me?"

John gapes, but Sherlock just rolls his eyes.

"Shall I bring up some biscuits, then?" Mrs Hudson offers from the doorway.

"No thank you, Mrs Hudson. Miss Adler won't be staying for long." The landlady shakes her head disapprovingly, but bustles out of the room.

"Oh how splendid! You always did strike me as a violist, John. The two of you ready to storm the concert halls?" Irene renews her icy smile, but her eyes soften as she turns her gaze to Sherlock.

"That's quite the neck mark, Sherlock. All from violin?"

Sherlock stares daggers into the woman. "_What_ are you doing here?" Sherlock demands.

"I was in the neighbourhood," Irene teases, "thought I'd drop in on my favourite couple."

She looks to John's face, anticipating an announcement of heterosexuality and lack of interest in his mad flatmate. What she sees, of course, is a fierce blush. John purses his lips and glares at Irene.

"It seems you've _changed your tune_, John Watson," she giggles. "He treating you well, then?"

"I treat him just fine, Irene. Now what are you doing here?" Sherlock's patience is running thin. The moment of the rehearsal is ruined, but there's still a chance John will consent to another partner activity as soon as he can get the woman to leave.

Sensing tension, Irene stands from the sofa and gathers her jacket. "Always lovely to see you, Sherlock." She places her hand on Sherlock's cheek and blows a kiss to John, then saunters out of the flat.

"I still don't like that woman." John grits.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks upwards, realising how tense and _possessive_ John has become. He walks over to John and pulls him into an embrace, kissing his hair. "Back massage?"

"Not right now. Right now I need _you_."

Sherlock is more than happy to oblige John, and so as he bends down to capture John's mouth in a sloppy kiss, his long fingers set to work on unfastening John's trousers.

John gasps out, "Don't you want to go to the bedroom?"

Yanking John's belt free, Sherlock slips his hands under John's tee-shirt and growls, "I want you to take me _right here_."

"In the living room?" John yelps as Sherlock's tongue swipes over his now exposed chest.

"Mmm," Sherlock hums. The detective pulls down John's trousers as he simultaneously sinks to his knees on the ornate red carpet. It's not the plushest of surfaces, but he wants to feel the heat from the fireplace and to see the music stands looming while John fucks him.

John runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, and moans softly as Sherlock licks at his cock.

If Sherlock Holmes is good at only one thing, it is at perfecting nearly everything he does. And Sherlock Holmes gives a damn near _perfect_ blow job.

Not long after, with John breathing heavily and sweating from both his orgasm and the fireplace, Sherlock rolls onto John's chest. Propping himself on an elbow, Sherlock leans down for a quick kiss.

"So measure 86, then?"

John rolls his eyes and groans.

xXx

_Bills, bills, wrong address, oh hello, what's this?_

John leafs through Thursday's post as he trudges up the stairs. Sherlock ran him positively ragged on a case last night, and he's just gotten home from a long day at the surgery. He hopes Sherlock is up to some experiment or cleaning out his mind palace or something to give John a break.

Flipping over the large envelope, John searches for a return address. Blank. With a shrug, John slips his index finger under the flap and tugs. Sheet music. Perhaps Sherlock ordered something new for them? But no, this isn't a duet. It's a _trio_.

"Sherlock?" John calls out.

"Kitchen."

"Sherlock, does Mycroft play cello or something? We've just gotten an unmarked envelope in the post with sheet music for a Beethoven string trio." John holds up the music with a little wave. "E flat major?"he says, making a face at the key.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Mycroft played the violin as well, though he was rubbish at it. Dabbled in piano too, but never cello."

"Any ideas who it's from then?"

"Several," Sherlock responds darkly, and the conversation is over.

xXx

"Crime has gotten quite _boring_ of late," Sherlock comments over his cup of coffee.

"That's nice," John replies, slathering jam over a piece of slightly blackened toast. He crunches down on it, wiping crumbs from his mouth as he logs onto his blog.

"Oh honestly, John." With a snap of the morning paper and a particularly violent eye roll, Sherlock reaches over to brush bread crumbs from John's dressing gown. _Just another Friday morning_, thinks John pleasantly.

"Thanks, dear," John teases. For that, Sherlock steals a bite of John's toast, smearing jam across his mouth. John swats away the detective's hand and leans across the table to lick the strawberry smear off his flatmate's cheek.

"Charming, John."

"Mmhmm," hums John, pleased with himself.

Sherlock decides the paper isn't worth his thoughts anymore, and he stands up to look over John's shoulder as he pecks at his keyboard.

Suddenly, lanky arms wrap around John's shoulders, and kisses press down the left side of his neck. Sherlock's lips pause at the deep pink mark left by John's viola, just under his jaw bone. He licks at the stubble there, and flicks a cursory glance over the text that John has painstakingly tapped out.

"You've spelled that wrong. No 'U' there." Sherlock returns to nuzzling at John, hoping the man will realise that Sherlock is after a morning practice session and some heavy snogging.

There is a clattering in the hallway and suddenly the door to 221B is thrown open.

Irene Adler stands in the doorway with a sleek red cello case strapped to her back.

John recovers first. "YOU."

"Me!" She confirms with a giggle. "Did you get my present?"

"Beethoven, Irene? Honestly, I would have thought you to have better taste," Sherlock replied.

"And in E-Flat major, too," John adds. "What a terrible key."

"I simply thought with all the fun you two have been having with your little duets, the three of us might be able to spice things up with a trio."

"So you waltzed into our flat with a fucking cello?" John demands.

"I suppose I assumed our darling violinist here would have deduced it, and you'd be expecting me."

Closing his eyes and silently cursing himself for not seeing her calluses (yet lack of a neck mark), Sherlock turns to John. He opens his ocean coloured eyes and issues quietly, "John, fetch your instrument, if you please."

Arching an eyebrow at the word "please", John slowly turns and jogs up the stairs. Sherlock sets to pulling out his own instrument, and arranging their kitchen chairs in a small arc.

"I haven't a third music stand."

"I planned ahead," Irene smirks. Reaching into a small pocket on the side of her case, she pulls out a small, folding music stand.

John returns, and the three unpacked their instruments in silence. John and Sherlock sit on the outsides, facing each other. John eyes Sherlock nervously, his eyes narrowing with his distrust and disapproval of Irene. Sherlock tries to keep his face still, gives a small quirk of the corner of his mouth, hoping to reassure John.

Irene adjusts her end pin one final time, and finds a good notch in the floor. She strokes the neck of her cello almost provocatively, and turns to Sherlock. "From the top, love?"

"We're just going to run through it like that? I've never even heard this piece," complains John.

"Tut tut, such a violist. You'll be fine, it's a _viola_ part," scolds Irene.

John gapes at her, and looks to Sherlock to come to his aid. Instead, he finds his flatmate holding his violin up, ready position.

"I'll start," Sherlock commands.

Irene rolls her eyes, but readies herself. John follows suit, still anxious to be sight-reading in front of Sherlock, and desperately wanting to impress Irene to shut her up.

They strike the first chord, and then wait nervously in the rest; Sherlock leads confidently onwards, though, and it seems to be going quite well. It's not too fast, so John is able to keep up and play quite well. He thinks he misses a few notes, and wishes he had time to mark in a few fingerings (_that passage really would be easier in second position)_, but overall he holds his own.

Until Irene decides that Sherlock's _allegro_ is not fast enough. Her eighth notes begin to press forward. Sherlock glares, and tries to pull back the tempo. John is still trying to discern notes in his next run and feels himself pull away from the other two. Irene presses faster, and calls out, "it's _con brio*_, Sherlock! I need more _brio_!" She throws her head back in a laugh, all the while continuing to play flawlessly.

They make it to the first break, and Sherlock brings them screeching to a halt.

"Sherlock? Something wrong?" Irene says coyly.

"Stop. Pushing. The Tempo." Sherlock's voice remains even but only just.

"It needs to go faster, Sherlock, You know that—"

"John has never seen this piece. Now stop. Pushing. The tempo."

There is a long pause.

"It's getting a little warm in here, isn't it?" Irene says. She pushes her jacket off her narrow shoulders to reveal a low-cut, teal top that looks like silk. Her skirt is black, pencil cut, but scrunched up her thighs to more easily accommodate her instrument between her knees.

John stares. Sherlock's eyes give her the once over, and then he returns his gaze to John.

"Irene, I think it's time for you to go."

"What?" John and Irene say in unison (though John's voice carries wonder and gratitude, while Irene's is shocked and slightly offended).

"You hate Beethoven almost as much as I do. You sent us this piece because you wanted the pretence to come over here and possibly try to slip a few witty innuendos about "wood between your legs" – _brava_ for restraining yourself—but your ultimate goal was to seduce not only myself, but John as well. You tried to sabotage the 'rehearsal' because you thought it had been musical aptitude of some kind that had awoken my interest in John sexually, so you sought to entice both of us that way, probably because you (quite rightly) assumed I wouldn't be interested if John were excluded. However what you failed to account for is that first and foremost, John detests you and would never agree to a threesome with you (especially one in which you were set to dominate). And secondly, there may have been a moment or two where I was intrigued by you in the past, even mildly impressed by your intellect and audacity, but do not think for one moment that I would betray John so badly as to stoop to sleeping with you."

John's response is automatic. "Brilliant."

Irene's mouth opens and closes. She shrugs her jacket back on. "I can see I've made a mistake, then. Keep the music, though. Perhaps sometime we can rehearse properly. John, please accept my ... apologies." She packs her cello with care but as quickly as she can, hoists the case onto her back, and only hesitates a second before dashing out the door.

A moment passes between John and Sherlock. They lock eyes with each other, both hesitant and not sure what to say.

Another moment passes. John shifts on his feet. "Thank you," he whispers.

Sherlock closes the gap between them and pulls John into his arms forcefully. "As soon as I realised what she was after, I—"

"I know. Thank you." John stretches up to kiss Sherlock, and the taller man meets him halfway for a long, slow kiss. When they break apart, John nearly whimpers. Sherlock seems to sense John's feeling, and returns to kiss him soundly again.

"Do you want to...?" Sherlock asks in a barely audible whisper.

A huge grin fills John Watson's face. "Race you."

Like a couple of school children, the two race back to the living room. Sherlock vaults over the couch and John skirts around it like a rabbit.

They pick up their instruments.

"Measure 86," they say together.

xXx

"You know," Sherlock says in between pressing kisses to John's shoulder, "I think you rather enjoyed Irene's visit after all."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Oh come on, it's obvious that you were aroused by my defence of you, as well as the possessiveness I demonstrated towards you."

John feels himself blush, and tugs the sheets up a bit over his naked body. Sherlock puts a hand on John's forearm and pushes the sheet back down. "Don't," he says. "I want to see all of you. You are mine," Sherlock growls, but quickly amends, "and I am yours."

"Indeed," John teases, and he snuggles up against Sherlock's pale chest, snaking an arm around the detective's narrow hips.

"John, I... I've only had one duet partner before you. Back at uni. He was technically very skilled, but his playing style lacked feeling. Much like mine does."

John opens his mouth to protest. "Please," Sherlock says. "Our playing fit because everything we did was technically correct. But there was nofeeling, no _passion_. Music needs that. A... relationship... needs that." He clears his throat uncomfortably, but presses on quickly.

"But you, with your playing, your playing is warm and supportive and you adjust to my pitches and tone and articulations... Just as you always do. You are not as skilled as my last partner was, but you are the only person I ever want to duet with. You bring out the best of my playing. You bring out the best of _me_. John Watson, I daresay that I love you."

John yanks Sherlock's face up to meet his and kisses him with as much fervour as he can muster.

"I love you, too, Sherlock." And John kisses him deeply again, tongue teasing into the violinist's mouth.

He pulls back though, a wicked grin crossing his face.

"Let's go practice. Right now."

"Why are you grinning like that? I would love to rehearse with you, just let me find my pants—"

"_Naked_."

Sherlock chuckles. "That," he says as he presses kisses into John's hair, "is a completely mad idea."

Sherlock grabs John's hand and pulls him off the bed, dashing back into the living room.

He almost throws his violin to his shoulder, and John is not far behind.

"From the top!" he calls joyously, and the two of them strike merrily upon the opening chord of Mozart's Duo in G major.

Notes: I haven't actually played the Mozart or the Beethoven pieces, but I thought they fit musically into what I wanted. (I made up those measure numbers, sorry xD). John's disgust with the key of E flat major is my own. Three flats just isn't fun on a stringed instrument.


	3. Give Them a Show

"Well? What do you think, boys? Will you be gracing us with your presence?" Lestrade's stupidly wide grin is betrayed by the resignation in his eyes.

In the background, Molly Hooper calls, "It's for a good cause!"

"I don't care about good causes," Sherlock says sourly.

"What he _means_ is, Sherlock will of course play violin at the talent-show fundraiser," John smirks. He thinks it will be fantastic for the Yarders to see a more human version of Sherlock that is still monumentally more talented than the Met.

"I will do no such thing!" Sherlock cried indignantly.

"A word, Sherlock?" John tugs Sherlock aside. There is a nearly audible eye roll from the lanky detective, but he allows himself to be dragged away from a sniggering Donovan.

"Why do you want me to play so badly? I see no reason for me to waste my time with this ridiculous talent show. Phone Mycroft and tell him to donate if the cause means so much to you."

"Sherlock, that's not really the point. Yes, it's a good cause, but did you consider that I have a more personal reason why I might want you to play?"

"You enjoy when I wear a tux. Very well, I'll wear one back at the flat. Now—"

"No, Sherlock. You're going to do this. For me. Because it's important _to me_, and that's what people who… well that's what's done and I want you to do it. Really, Sherlock, it isn't much to ask. You already like showing off so much."

Sherlock is skeptical, and his eyes study John's face for a moment before a flash of mischief registers.

As the corner of his mouth curls up, John's mouth curves down into a frown. "What is that face for? I don't think I like that face…"

"John," Sherlock says steadily. "I will agree to play for this event on one condition."

"Oh?"

"You play with me. It's a duet or no performance from me."

"Come on, Sherlock. No one wants to hear my rubbish playing. They want to hear you. Just play a Bach partita or something."

"No, John. On this I shall stand firm. Either you play a duet with me, or I don't play at all."

"If I agree to play, you have to also play a solo piece."

"No. Two duets."

"Sherlock be reasonable."

"What for?" Sherlock locks eyes with John and knows that he's won.

Striding back to the Detective Inspector, Sherlock pastes on his best fake smile. "Good news, Lestrade! John and I have both agreed to play for your benefit… concert."

"John as well? Didn't know you played. Well, the more the merrier. Molly plays piano, maybe all three of you could—"

John and Sherlock interrupt with a forceful "No!" right away.

Shaking off the memory of their last ill-fated trio attempt, an impish glint appears in Sherlock's eyes. "Besides, I think she'd be much happier accompanying, say, a certain Detective Inspector's tenor?"

Sally scoffs. "You can't mean Greg. Can Dimmock sing?"

A faint blush creeps across Greg's neck and cheeks. "I can sing quite well, thanks very much, Sally," Lestrade says just above a whisper.

Molly seems oblivious to the awkwardness that has just passed, as she abandons her clipboard full of notes, bouncing over to where the others are all standing at the sign-up sheet on the bulletin board.

"What kind of things do you like to sing, then? I play all sorts of piano music; I'm sure we could find something to do together. I-If you'd like." Molly glances furtively at Sherlock, but John notes it seems to be more of a request for reassurance than anything.

"Yeah, that'd be, er, that'd be nice. If you'll give me a couple of minutes to clean up, we can go grab a coffee and pick out a song?"

John turns to gape at Sherlock. _Consulting matchmaker Sherlock Holmes,_ he thinks to himself wryly.

But John's smirk is short lived as Sherlock swirls back to face him. "Don't think you're getting out of this, John. If I'm going down I'll take you with me," Sherlock menaces.

"We can both go down, but I think we should take turns," John giggles.

Blushing furiously but still managing to roll his eyes, Sherlock shoves John towards the door. "We're leaving, John."

Sherlock has already hailed a cab by the time John gets over his fit of laughter and catches Sherlock up.

Sherlock waits, door open, for John to slide in first. He gets in, settling himself in carefully, and gives their address to the driver.

"Are you quite pleased with yourself, then?" Sherlock mutters bitterly.

"Oh come on, Sherlock. Lighten up. It's not like anyone heard me."

"It was completely immature."

"Maybe, but it was still damn funny."

Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock commands, "_Don't_ do it again."

"Or what?" John goads.

"Or-" Sherlock begins, and then launches himself at John's neck, kissing at first then biting, working a blossoming bruise onto the right side of John's throat.

"Like that, is it? And you did it on the right, too, so I can't blame my viola for it. Very clever, genius man."

John struggles but finally regains the upper hand, but manages only to move Sherlock's scarf out of the way before the cabbie pulls up to 221B.

Sherlock bolts out of the car, leaving John to pay (of course), and John tips the cabbie a little extra for having to put up with all that.

When John makes it upstairs, Sherlock has somehow already managed to have strewn sheet music positively _everywhere_.

"_What_ the bloody hell are you doing?" John exclaims. "They're in file boxes for a _reason_, Sherlock! So you can file through them! Not rip them out and toss them any which way you like!"

"I know what piece we're going to play, John! I have to find it, you'll need to begin practicing right away so it's performance-ready on time." Sherlock continues to rifle through the sheet music.

John decides his best bet is to ignore Sherlock, make himself a cup of tea, and maybe update his blog. Who knows, perhaps he can drum up some extra charity from his readers.

As John proof reads his blog entry, Sherlock erupts from a pile of papers with a small bound volume in both hands. He gazes at it reverently.

"This one. Go get your viola. You're awful at double stops and this has quite a few of them. Accidentals everywhere. You'll need to practice constantly. But it's the perfect piece."

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Sherlock. I suppose you already know your part perfectly, then? And what are we playing that's so perfect?"

"Robert Fuchs' 12 Duets for Violin and Viola. I think the 10th piece should work nicely. I've actually… I've never played it. It was given to me as a graduation gift from university, but by then my previous duet partner wasn't talking to me and I had no one to play it with."

A warm smile blooms across John's face. Sherlock's inadvertent reminder that John was the only one he trusted to play with was enough to repress the joke forming in John's head. He'd save it for later.

"How about I go shake some of the sight-reading cobwebs out, and then we'll run through it together?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock says. He's already slunk off to his room, rummaging around for something else now.

Shaking his head, John heads upstairs to his room with the sheet music. As he fits his shoulder rest to his instrument, he hears music wafting from downstairs.

But it wasn't Sherlock playing. Cocking his head, John realises the music is coming from a record player. Double stops singing out between the crackles and pops make John open the music in front of him. He's only missed a few measures, so he scans the page and follows along.

Sherlock was right, as always; this piece is breath-taking. Mournful, harmonically complex, and hinting just enough at hope as to not be too depressing, John closes his eyes and lets the music fill his nose, his lungs, his entire body.

When the piece draws to a close, John picks up his viola, brushes through a couple of the nastier looking measures, and then packs everything rather quickly to head downstairs. Sherlock is about to restart the record. John softly places his viola down on the coffee table, and then steps over to where Sherlock has installed the phonograph.

Sherlock's eyes are closed as the opening chords fill their sitting room again, and John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's shoulder blades without really kissing him. They sway back and forth gently, in wider movements when the piece crescendos and smaller as it fades quietly. When the final chord comes to an end, neither man breathes. Everything is still inside 221B, not a sound save for the crackling of the record.

They stand this way for several more minutes, until all of their muscles seem to have relaxed. Sherlock picks up John's hand from its place on the detective's waist, and kisses his knuckles.

"Would you like to..?"

_Go to bed together? Play the piece? Run away to Sweden?_

"Yes," John breathes quietly, _yes to anything you say, Sherlock. Thank you for opening up to me so much_.

But John cannot say this; he is worried that Sherlock will mock him for such sentimentality. He can't hold it against Sherlock that he doesn't like to express such 'meaningless drivel', but deep down, John hopes that Sherlock feels it just as John does.

With another quick squeeze, John lets go of Sherlock, waiting to follow Sherlock's lead. Sherlock turns around, and looks into John's face, eyes wet and aquamarine.

"Sherlock?" John says tenderly.

Sherlock puts his index finger under John's chin, tilting his face up. John stretches up on tip toes and Sherlock meets him with a long, slow kiss. John could melt.

Pulling back from the kiss, Sherlock brushes John's cheek in the sweetest gesture John has ever seen, so unlike Sherlock and yet so fitting for this moment.

"Let's give it a go, then," Sherlock says, some of the vulnerability fading from his features.

John nods his head and picks up his viola. Sherlock counts them off and they pull their instruments up to their chins.

###

"I do hope you're not planning matching outfits for us or something," Sherlock whines.

"What gave you that impression? I just think we should look... coordinated."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Just don't wear any jumpers. A button-up and those grey trousers will do for you."

"And you'll be wearing what?"

Sherlock smoothes his hands over his silk shirt. "Please, John. I'll be wearing what I always wear; I see no reason to dress up and I'm always much better dressed than you."

"I thought you liked my jumpers," John pouts.

"I like taking your jumpers off of you," Sherlock suggests, and swaggers forward to press a wet kiss to John's lips.

John's hands slide over Sherlock's back as the detective's find John's hips, tugging at the hem of his oatmeal jumper.

Sherlock quirks his mouth into a smile, making John giggle as they try to continue the kiss. Finally wrestling the jumper off of John's torso, Sherlock breaks the kiss to take it over his violist's head.

"Now, let's see about finding you a suitable shirt. I rather like you in burgundy, I think," Sherlock muses.

He rifles through John's wardrobe until he finds a deep red button up shirt, and then yanks out a pair of grey trousers and tosses both to John.

"Put these on," Sherlock instructs. "I've an experiment to tend to briefly and then we'll be off." He swirls out of the room.

John sighs, but begins pulling on the shirt Sherlock has selected. When he's checked himself in the mirror, he turns down the stairs to meet Sherlock in the sitting room.

"See?" Sherlock says with a smirk, "you look much nicer without that bulky jumper."

John purses his lips. "Enough with the jumper hate," he scolds.

"You can put them back on later; if we're going to perform at this insufferable thing, I want to show you off," Sherlock says in a low voice, "to everyone."

"You what?"

"I want them to see you as I do," Sherlock whispers. "It's infuriating that I can't...you really shouldn't be as interesting as you are, and yet there is something so wonderful, so _perfect_ about how _average _you are."

"Thank you, I think?"

Sherlock leans down to press a kiss to John's hair. "Ready to go?"

John pulls Sherlock back down for a proper kiss, but realising that it was time to leave, pulls away after only a moment.

Sherlock pouts and tries to recapture John's mouth in the kiss. "We don't have to go, you know," he tries to say casually. It comes out pleadingly.

"What, all that practicing for nothing?" John straightens Sherlock's shirt, then rests his hands on the detective's chest. "Besides, I thought you wanted to show me off."

"Hmm, yes I suppose I do. Well let's get to it then, shall we?"

Grabbing their instruments and making sure the music is tucked safely in the outside pocket of John's case, the two descend the steps down back street.

Sherlock hails a cab for them, and they climb in, hands linked, instruments on their laps, and sit in contented silence on the ride to the yard. It seems strange to have their instruments with them going to the police station, but when they arrive, they see that a few others have brought instruments, books, and Sherlock notes that it seems Anderson fancies himself a magician.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Lestrade offers with a broad smile. "Glad you could make it. We're using my office for personal effects, if you'd like to unpack and leave your cases in there. We'll be starting in a few minutes. Thought it might be nice if you boys finished the show, so you'll be last."

Lestrade hands them both a program, listing the eleven acts the Yard has managed to scrape together: A desk clerk reciting a poem, a few officers singing a barber-shop style medley, a clarinet trio ("Sure to be insufferable," complains Sherlock), Anderson attempting magic tricks, a juggling act, Dimmock has some sort of wretched stand-up comedy routine planned, Sergeant Donovan whistling?, some poor sap under the impression he can break-dance, an Irish step dancer, Lestrade and Molly's piano/singing duo, and finally John and Sherlock's duet.

The boys tune their instruments, and obediently take their seats, though Sherlock insists upon sulking in the back row. The clarinet trio was awful as expected, but when Anderson takes the stage with a deck of cards and a handful of red foam balls, Sherlock smirks and leans into John's ear to whisper, "I daresay that this will possibly make this entire event worth it."

With a great deal of tacky showmanship and 'disappearing ball' tricks, Anderson promises "one final act," presumably before he is booed off the make-shift stage. He then tries to make a scarf vanish, and then pull it out of a shirt sleeve. Sherlock all but guffaws while the rest of the audience manages polite applause.

There is a fairly good turnout for the event, much to everyone's delight. Except of course, Sherlock, who really couldn't care how many people turned up.

Sally Donovan actually had an interesting act, whistling O mio babbino caro, from a Puccini opera. John thinks to himself that maybe now, Sherlock will be marginally nicer to Sally, given her apparent interest in opera music.

The two dance acts, if they could be called that, were disastrous, but both John and Sherlock sit up a little a straighter as a small electric piano is wheeled out, and Lestrade and Molly take to the stage. They both look like school children, how much they blush in each other's presence, which John finds endearing and Sherlock claims is 'revoltingly dull' (even though he was the one who suggested their [musical] union. With a short piano intro, Greg began to sing Danny Boy; though Sherlock mutters that the song choice is pedestrian, he cannot deny that the pair does it well. Lestrade's voice is warm and clear, and Molly's playing, while she stumbles over a few notes, compliments him well.

They receive a heartfelt round of applause, during which Sherlock squeezes John's hand quickly, and the two stand up. Officer Evans jogged back to the microphone to introduce John and Sherlock as the final act while the two men set their music stands and quietly check to see if their strings are still in tune.

Satisfied, Evans returns to his seat, and the two men bring their instruments to their shoulders. John realises he is shaking like a leaf; it's been quite a while since he's played for an audience, especially people he knows and not just strangers at his uni recitals.

But when Sherlock's eyes lock onto his, the nerves quiet down, and John forgets the audience as his world shifts focus to Sherlock and the music and nothing else.

As they soar through the oscillating harmonies and pass through rhythms a together, John feels the energy pulsing through his veins. Sherlock never looks at his music; eyes always fixed on John, he is more expressive, more open than John has ever heard his playing. John finds that he has the music memorised, too, and it feels more natural to just close his eyes and _feel_ Sherlock's lead.

Sherlock has closed his eyes, too, and they have moved closer on the stage. Not a breathe moves in the audience, transfixed by the perfect synchrony and just how attuned John and Sherlock are.

Lestrade muses that it really oughtn't to surprise him that in music, they would be every bit as coordinated and complimentary. Sherlock is still the more talented of the two, but John makes up for it with raw passion and emotion that seeps from his instrument and across the room.

When the final, gentle note sounds, no one even breathes. Finally, John and Sherlock both open their eyes simultaneously, and slowly let their bow arms drop. Lestrade and Molly tentatively start a quiet clap, and when the others join in it becomes enthusiastic and wild.

John and Sherlock, though, are still locked away in their own private world. Without thinking, Sherlock steps forward. John mirrors his movement, and together they meet in a deep, languid kiss. A few gasps and hollers flew at them, and coming back to reality, John sheepishly pulled away.

Sherlock, unperturbed as always, drew him back to him, kissing him once more amongst wolf-whistles and what Sherlock would later describe as the most stunning expression of stupidity ever to cross Anderson's face.

##

After the fundraiser was cleaned up and the drawers counted, the team finds that they had raised about a thousand pounds. Considering their meagre showcase, Lestrade is thrilled with the results. He invites everyone out to drinks, and somehow, he and John convince Sherlock to join them.

"Great show, everyone!" Greg calls out, raising a glass. A chorus of "cheers" followed, and then Molly appeared at Greg's side. The Detective Inspector instantly snaked an arm around her waist. Though she seemed surprised, she also appeared quite pleased with the situation.

"I didn't know you could sing so well, Greg!" John teased. "Course I didn't know that Molly even played piano, so I guess lots of hidden talents in your team, eh?"

"Except," interrupts Sherlock, "for Dimmock and Anderson. Though Anderson I expected from the start would be an utter disappointment."

Lestrade chuckles. "Dimmock wasn't so bad; I do have to agree with you on Anderson, though. A monkey could see through his 'disappearing' acts."

Molly pipes up. "John, we didn't know you were so talented, either."

Taking a sip of his beer, John smiles politely. "I'm really not. Sherlock's the talent; I'm just the back up to make him sound good."

"Nonsense," Sherlock rumbles. Everyone is surprised. He looks incredulous as he continues, "Without an _even_ balance, that piece is awful. It can't be a one-violin show, nor can it be too viola driven. It is the careful juxtaposition and blend of the two voices that creates such a divine harmony."

The table is quiet, and John looks at Sherlock with such amazement that Sherlock adds in a lower voice, "I couldn't have done that without you."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John says quietly, and leans forward to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "That was... thank you."

"It's the truth, John."

"It's still nice to hear it once in a while."

Lestrade and Molly have moved closer again, as Lestrade wraps an arm around her and she snuggles in closer.

"Well I'm glad the evening went so well," John tries, "but those nerves got me. Think I'll head home."

Sherlock jumps up and grabs his coat, as if John leaving without him were the most foolish notion in the world.

Sherlock offers a curt nod as a goodbye to Lestrade and Molly, and John offers a handshake to Lestrade and a brief squeeze of Molly's shoulder as he wishes them a happy evening.

Stepping outside into the cool night air, Sherlock hails a cab as effortlessly as always, and they clamber into the back seat while Sherlock gives their address.

"Well I guess the Yard knows about us, yeah?" John tries to chuckle but it sounds fake to his own ears. There is a long silence.

"John," Sherlock says simply.

"Sherlock," John replies in the same manner. A few more minutes tick by.

"Thank you for doing this with me," Sherlock says finally, though his discomfort is almost tangible.

"You do remember it was my idea for you to play in this silly thing, right?"

"But I was the one to suggest a duet. So thank you for going along with it."

"When do I not?" Teases John.

"Your conformity to my needs and demands is ... flattering."

The cab pulls up to their flat. Suddenly, Sherlock leans forward, kisses John's lips quickly, and says so quietly John isn't quite sure if he really says it: "I love you." And the detective flies out of the cab and bounds up the stairs.

It's not their first 'I love you,' but the phrase is still so new and intimate that John freezes for a moment. The cabbie snaps him out of it when he asks for John to pay. Taking the bills out of his wallet, he hands them to the driver, and walks on clouds all the way up to 221B.


	4. Care to accompany me?

Sorry this is a bit late (I ended up going to see the hobbit today!) This started out as a brilliant idea, but I fear it may have fallen flat. Feedback is always welcomed; I'm definitely open to revising this chapter. Nevertheless, enjoy!

* * *

After a brief struggle with the front door and Tesco bags, John walks into 221B to find it deserted. He checks his phone, figuring that if Sherlock has bothered to tell him where he's at, it would be by text.

There's nothing there, so John decides to ask. _Where are you?_

The reply is nearly immediate: _Back soon_.

John nods his head firmly and sets to finding space for groceries amongst chemicals and dubious 'experiments'.

Shopping put away, John makes himself a cup of tea and settles down in his armchair with the newspaper to enjoy some time to himself before his whirlwind of a flatmate and boyfriend returns.

Just as he gets comfortable, there is a heavy knock at the door, and Mrs Hudson calls up from downstairs. "Sherlock? John? There's a delivery man here!"

With an exasperated sigh, John folds up his newspaper. "Yes, coming, Mrs Hudson," he says, annoyed, but of course not at Mrs Hudson.

He comes downstairs to find an imposing, muscular man with overly hairy forearms holding a clipboard. "Delivery for Mister 'Olmes?"

"Yeah, he's not in right now. What's all this?"

"Oh, observe, John!" Sherlock exclaims breathlessly, running up from apparently nowhere. "The truck clearly says _Davy's Piano Shop_ on the side!"

"You've bought a piano?" John asks incredulously.

"Of course not, John! Mycroft bought it, and had it delivered to us."

John rolls his eyes. "Where are we going to put a bloody piano, Sherlock?"

"Gentlemen! Where's this piano goin'?"

"Sorry, yes, second floor. Should fit up the stairs; I've measured." Turning to John, Sherlock explains, "It's an upright, so it'll fit in the front room."

"An up—Sherlock, you can't even play the piano. What's all this about?"

Smoothing his features, Sherlock looks at John with his kindest 'I'll only explain because you're an idiot' face. "It strikes me that there are very few violin/viola duet pieces that are worth playing. That being said, I figured I could learn some piano so we could play a wider repertoire of music together. Can't believe that I didn't think of this before, really."

"You're going to learn piano just so we can play more duets?" John is actually quite surprised. "Why, Sherlock Holmes, that's downright romantic of you."

"I was hoping we might try a different era, but romantic will do, if it's what you really want."

John gapes. "Did you actually just make a joke?"

"Is it so unthinkable?" Sherlock says, and ducks his head down for a quick, wet kiss to his flatmate's lips.

An hour later, the piano sits next to the window, books and papers having been shoved aside to make space for it. Sherlock stands with his hands on his hips, clearly satisfied. With a dramatic sweep, he seats himself on the bench and pulls off the dust cover.

His fingers wiggle with excitement, and he stares at his new piano like a body at a crime scene.

John stifles a laugh, and rests his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Are you trying to _deduce _the piano?" He drops a kiss into the detective's hair.

"In a way, I suppose. I understand theoretically how the piano works, and obviously I'm an accomplished musician, I just have to find how to put my knowledge into practice. Don't want to sound like a five year old," he grouses.

John smirks. "I doubt you sounded like a five year old when you _were_ a five year old." He gives Sherlock a squeeze and steps back. "Well, I'll leave you to it. I'll be upstairs."

Sherlock grunts and places a piece of music on the piano. Several weeks ago, when the piano idea had first come to him, he had stolen the piano score from John's music collection. It was a piece he had often heard John playing quietly in his room, so he thought it would be a good piece to start with.

Sentiment, or something.

He scrutinizes the music for a moment and then decides which keys he'll press. He shifts a little to get more comfortable on the wooden bench, and presses the keys.

A jarring almost-chord jangles out of the piano. Sherlock stares at his hands in disbelief, still confident that he was correct.

He reviews the notes on the page again, and adjusts down a half note in the left hand and tries again.

Much better.

He pushes confidently through the rhythm of the repeated chord, and stalls when a note changes. He leans forward, squinting at the bass clef line and adjusts his hand accordingly. This time he tries the new chord more tentatively, but is rewarded with a pleasant result.

Sherlock continues muddling his way through the first section of the piece, a staccato succession of slightly changing chords. He wishes he could hear John playing the melody, because this piano score is beyond boring.

Finally, the right hand part takes up the melody line while the viola solo swirls into smooth sixteenth note slurs, but even then, Sherlock finds the melody line tedious on the piano. Pushing keys down isn't nearly as challenging as perfecting the pitch and tone of the violin.

As the piano part again becomes little more than background frills, as Sherlock sees it, he crashes down on as many keys as he can hit and swats the music clean off the ledge.

He crosses his arms and pouts like a small child.

John jogs down from his bedroom, freshly showered and buttoning the cuffs to his red button down shirt. "That's really quite good for your first go, Sherlock. Course, when have you ever been less than amazing at something, I wonder."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "This duet is absolute rubbish. Halvorsen is a pathetic composer if this is the best he can do."

"You're playing an _accompaniment_, Sherlock. It's not supposed to be flashy and interesting. It's to support the soloist," John reminds him. "You play solo pieces all the time on your violin. This time you're just on the other end."

"The other end is foul. This was a terrible idea."

John arches a brow at his flatmate as he shrugs his jacket on. "I'm not having any of that. You basically stole a piano from your brother; the least you can do is learn to play it properly. Find some other music, Sherlock. Something meant _for_ the piano. I think you'll like it much better."

Suddenly, Sherlock realizes that John's grabbing his keys and heading for the door. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"Just out," John replies carefully.

Sherlock jumps up from the piano bench, nearly knocking it over. "Out with _whom_?" He asks. He tries to look accusing but the boyish fear in his eyes betrays his expression.

With a deep sigh, John puts his keys back on the table and walks over to Sherlock, kissing him tenderly. The taller man's arms wrap around John tightly, rubbing over his back. After a moment, John pulls away, but Sherlock continues his embrace.

They hold each other's gaze, and John speaks up. "I'm meeting Molly for drinks."

Slightly dazed from the kiss, Sherlock jerks his head back in confusion. "Wh—Molly? Whatever for?"

"For a drink, Sherlock. She wanted to talk. It's nothing you need to worry about," John assures him. "I won't be out late."

As John starts to pull away, Sherlock slides his hands down to catch John's own, and draws him back in for another kiss. Sherlock hopes John can sense the reluctance in letting John leave.

"Sherlock, seriously, what's gotten into you? I'll be back before you know it. Hell, you may even forget that I'm gone," John jokes weakly.

Sherlock shakes his head, dark curls bouncing. "It's nothing. It's fine. I'll see you later."

John looks at him warily, but gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and finally leaves.

Sherlock flops down on the sofa and fires up his laptop.

#

After a frustrating search for _interesting _piano parts on the IMSLP*, Sherlock settles for printing off a Glinka viola sonata score. He props the pages on the piano and begins to tap out the notes.

The piano score is a full eighteen pages long, and by the time John comes back, Sherlock can (mostly) play through it.

It's only about nine o'clock when John returns, a sleepy smile on his face as he hangs his jacket and drops his keys on his desk.

"You know, John, this piano business really is quite easy."

John's smile broadens. "Well," he says with a chuckle, "you've certainly got the hands for it, and the brain."

"I've prepared a piece for us to play together," Sherlock informs his tipsy partner.

"Please tell me you're not expecting me to run through it with you tonight," John says half-heartedly.

"Of course I was," Sherlock responds.

"Can we not? I'm a bit tired and my vision's not in a good place for sight reading just now, Sherlock."

Sherlock flops into his arm chair, demonstrating his disappointment.

John perches on the arm rest and lays a warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Tomorrow morning, I promise."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbles. John drops a kiss in Sherlock's hair and goes upstairs to change into his pyjamas.

As he's brushing his teeth, Sherlock appears in the doorway. John spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink before turning to his flatmate. "Did you need something? I'm nearly finished in here."

Sherlock leans against the frame, arms crossed, mouth quirking slightly. He steps into the bathroom and stands behind John, wrapping his arms around the doctor's waist. "Carry on," he instructs.

John rolls his eyes but finishes brushing his teeth. Sherlock follows him to his room, refusing to release his grip, awkwardly shuffling behind John.

"I take it you'll be joining me tonight, then?"

Sherlock says nothing, just peels back the duvet and flops into John's bed. He pulls back the other side of the bed for John and looks expectantly.

John falls into bed, too, and Sherlock shimmies up behind him, wrapping his long, gangly arms around John's torso once more.

John shifts slightly to get comfortable, and Sherlock begins to hum softly. John thinks he might recognize the tune, but he can't quite place it, and he drifts to sleep against his detective's softly buzzing chest.

#

It's six forty seven in the morning when Sherlock decides that John has slept for long enough. The detective himself has been awake for nearly two hours, but he very politely let John sleep.

Until now.

"John?" he asks, prodding his boyfriend in the shoulder. "John, wake up. It's morning. I want to rehearse. We haven't had a case in days and I'm bored. You know what happens when I get bored."

John grunts. "Are you trying to guilt me out of bed?"

"Depends. Did it work?"

With a resigned sigh, John throws the blankets off of him and rolls into a sitting position. "It seems so," he says with a smirk and a shake of his head.

"Excellent. I've already put the kettle on so you can have your requisite tea and then we can get straight to the rehearsing. I'll need a few minutes to warm up, anyway."

John grunts again but follows Sherlock, albeit much more slowly, down the stairs.

He drops a teabag into a mug and pours the boiling water over the leaves. He plops down at the kitchen table, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Sherlock is already settling himself at the piano, fussing with music and the bench. He looks over to John expectantly, like a child making sure their parents are watching before they demonstrate some newfound skill.

John looks a bit bewildered. He takes a sip of his tea and curses quietly as he burns his tongue.

Sherlock takes that as his cue to begin playing, and despite several stumbles, wrong notes, and more than one pause to find a new chord, his playing is really quite astonishing for it being his second day on the instrument.

John takes another tentative sip, and this time his tea actually is the good kind of piping hot, and he takes a long gulp of it. "And you're sure you've never played piano before?" he asks Sherlock.

"Mycroft had one, but I rarely touched the thing. I've seen countless people play, and as I told you, I've done my research. It's only slightly more challenging than I anticipated."

Sherlock begins fiddling with keys, and replays the passages he stumbled over earlier. John finishes his tea, and grabs a piece of toast, too while Sherlock practices.

Hasty breakfast completed, John wipes the crumbs off his pyjamas and pushes back from the table. "I'll just go get my viola then, shall I?"

Sherlock ignores him as he squints at the sheet music, but John knows what Sherlock wants, so a few moments later, he returns to the sitting room with his viola and begins unpacking.

Sherlock finally seems to notice when John fits his shoulder rest to the lower bout, and plucks all four strings to see how out of tune it's gotten. Not too bad.

Sherlock breaks off in the middle of a phrase. "You'll need to tune down to an A440 since I'm guessing you usually use an A442?"

"I have no idea, just play an A and I'll match it."

John plays a few runs to warm his fingers up, and Sherlock props the Glinka viola part on John's music stand.

He eyes it suspiciously, but secretly wants to thank Sherlock for choosing a piece with a fairly easy viola part. Most of his fast notes are ornamental turns, and nothing looks too screeching high.

John notes that Sherlock's piano score looks significantly more complicated, and he's not entirely sure how this is going to go.

"We're not really taking this at the full allegro, are we?"

"No of course not. Certainly not for a first read-through. I'm still figuring out the best fingerings for all these sixteenth note runs."

"Alright. So, looks like you start? Whatever tempo you like, I suppose."

Sherlock nods and smoothes his features into placid concentration. He sets off at a moderate speed, and John internalizes the rhythm and prepares to join Sherlock.

Their first run through goes surprisingly well; both musicians make several mistakes, but they make it to the end and only had to regroup once.

John scribbles in some fingerings and bowings to help his next attempt, and Sherlock crashes through a few measures of runs several (dozen) times.

When John has put his pencil down, Sherlock asks, "Again?"

John shrugs, and Sherlock begins again from the top.

John enters on a pickup. _One and two and thr—_

Sherlock's phone rings. He immediately stops playing because it's Lestrade with a case.

#

The case turns out to be a rather simple robbery, and Sherlock has it solved in less than two days.

The detective and his doctor find themselves once again facing the music at Sherlock's behest.

Both men more confident in their own parts, they begin to discuss phrasing and musicality, and it becomes abundantly clear that Sherlock needs a reminder of dynamics.

"That was the loudest mezzo-forte I've ever heard," John chides. "I'm at fortissimo there, but you've got t o stay under me. It's not a contest, Sherlock."

They play the passage again, and Sherlock stays quiet where he should, crescendos dramatically—

And doesn't decrescendo at all.

"Sherlock! Honestly, I've got the same phrase. You know how to play proper dynamics, stop banging about and do it right."

"Well you're pushing the tempo! I feel like you're dragging me along! This whole passage is a mess. You need to listen to my part better."

John stills. He tucks his viola under his arm, puts his bow on the stand. "No."

Sherlock gapes, mouthing words that don't come.

"I don't think you're listening to my part at all. I know you're used to being in charge, but this time, _you're_ accompanying _me. _So that means if I rush a bit, you pick up the pace, too. If we're missing a handoff, _you _need to match me.

Let me lead, Sherlock. Trust me, for once. I promise: I know what I'm doing."

"I always trust you," Sherlock says quietly.

"Then show me," John replies in kind.

Sherlock looks down at his hands, stretches his fingers, places them over the piano keys.

He pulls them away from the keyboard, and turns back to John. "I'm a loner and a leader. It doesn't mean I'm not willing to follow, I just... I don't know how."

John's face softens, and he puts his viola down on the sofa.

He holds out his hand. "Come with me."

Sherlock observes John's face and understands. He gets up from the bench and lets John pull him to Sherlock's bedroom.

John pulls Sherlock down for a deep kiss, hands stroking down the taller man's back and sides, caressing his face, his neck.

Sherlock stands a bit awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do. He understands that John wants to lead him, so he doesn't do what he usually would. He decides to put his hands on John's waist, fingers twitching with the urge to lift John's jumper and vest up and over his shoulders, caress his bare skin with the back of Sherlock's fingers, letting them dip down below John's waistband.

John begins to lead them to the bed, slowly unbuttoning Sherlock's cobalt silk shirt now. He has Sherlock's full attention right now, and John plans on taking advantage of that fact. The violist removes Sherlock's belt, but leaves his trousers on, for now.

With a nudge, John sends Sherlock tumbling backwards onto the bed. Sherlock props himself on his elbows and shimmies up the bed, and waits for John to join him.

John crawls up the impossible length of Sherlock's body, kissing a path from navel to nape until he is on all fours, straddling Sherlock. He pauses to remove his jumper and vest now, and Sherlock's hands fly up to find the now exposed flesh.

John chuckles, but allows Sherlock's hands to roam as his own fingers begin their exploration. John leans down to graze his teeth over Sherlock's neck, and his fingers find Sherlock's nipples. He runs his hands over Sherlock's chest and a faint moan escapes Sherlock's lips.

Wanting more contact, Sherlock tries to wrap his leg around John's waist to pull him closer. John removes Sherlock's leg, and continues his previous attentions to Sherlock's neck and chest.

He traces fingertips up along Sherlock's pale torso, following the line of his body up to his impossible cheekbones. John weaves his fingers back into Sherlock's curls, humming with pleasure as he kisses Sherlock fiercely, tasting his lover's lips and tongue.

Still caging Sherlock on his hands and knees, John holds Sherlock's hips down when he arches up, searching for more contact, more of anything.

"Ah ah ah, let me lead," John chides. But by now, he's aching for it too, so he shimmies down Sherlock's slim body, sliding his violinist's knees apart and finally giving them both the contact they crave.

Sherlock moans as John settles his weight on his body. The taller man clutches at John, kissing and licking anywhere he can reach. John scolds him with a playful bite to his collarbone as he runs his hands over Sherlock's nipples once more.

When Sherlock's body relaxes into John's, his head falling back onto the pillow, the violist grins: Finally, Sherlock has stopped trying to take over. He is still responsive, but he lets John control the pace now. John rewards him grinding their hips together. He adds some lube and takes them both in hand, stroking firmly until they both shudder through a breathless orgasm.

When they've recovered, Sherlock props himself up on an elbow and pulls John towards him for a sweet kiss. "That was remarkable," he says in a low voice.

"I told you to trust me," John grins. "So do you think you can figure out how to accompany me a little better now?"

Sherlock groans.

"Come on, Sherlock. Tell me you've learned something from this."

"Well apparently I like when you boss me about in the bedroom," he smirks.

"Sherlock..." John growls.

His lover quiets him with a kiss. "Relax, John. I think I've learned my lesson."

"Good."

"Besides, if I need a little reminder lesson later on, I'm quite sure you'd be amenable," Sherlock rumbles, and kisses John again.

"Oh that's it," John quips, and rolls back on top of Sherlock, taking control of the kiss.

Sherlock laughs, but gives over to John once more. "_That's _more like it."


End file.
